Ladybug Red
by Jane Dilton
Summary: The team finds itself entangled in a delicate case. Themes from Flame Red hopefully to be explored later on.
1. Chapter 1

Just something that was fun to write. Perhaps I'll continue it into something substantial :-)

**Hallucination**

Perhaps it was a dream. You can never be sure of such things.

The snow felt real enough, biting the fingertips, making the softest of crunching sounds as it compacted under the rubber of his boots. His very well cared for, spotless boots. Lisbon was there, of course. Well, not of course—but it felt very natural that she should be there, and somehow assuring, so Jane did not question the validity of the hallucination in case the slightest doubt or the most innocent of questions would startle the dream and burst it into a thousand translucent, effervescent bubbles.

It was so still that it seemed unreal. The vibration of his body as his heart beat a steady drum-line in his chest matched the gentle chomp of the snow below. Perhaps his ears were stuffed with cotton—or better yet, with little wads of fog that rolled off some distant harbor and nestled close inside them.

The field of snow was red under a sea of ladybugs. When they reached the edge of that sea Jane turned and looked at Lisbon, who stared outward like a surfer might gaze at the horizon beyond the sound and the waves. He offered his right hand and she glanced at him, then smiled and took it.

So they stepped into that sea of red—of desire and excitement and delightful panic and pain.

_Don't look back_, Lisbon said to him. But of course he did. And he saw that the path their feet had taken turned into little puddles of red paint. Crayola red, and it reminded him of fresh supplies laid out on white linen, ready for kindergarten art class.

He almost laughed because it was so absurd but for the troubling question, _where did the ladybugs go?_


	2. Chapter 2

It goes without saying: I don't own the characters.  
I've gotten the overall plot planned out, and here's to hoping that the filler material (the most important part!) won't escape me.

**Chapter One**

It was two in the afternoon when the gentle commotion of an office (buzzing phone lines, the rustling of paper, the pattering of footsteps, hazy voices calling across short distances) floated into Jane's consciousness. He breathed in deeply and noted the comforting scent of leather, the faint hint of women's perfume, the sharp tang of starched collars. Without opening his eyes he stretched fully and luxuriously, smiling with the indulgence of an alley cat warming himself in the sunlight and making noise enough that Rigsby glanced up from his perch behind Van Pelt's chair and smirked.

Jane sat up and shook himself a little, as if to shake loose any lingering remnants of some unsettling feeling, and looked around the room. The Serious Crimes unit was quiet today. The three agents were seated in their respective desks and table corners, as still as figurines except for the nimble clattering of Cho's fingers across the keyboard and the movement of two pairs of eyes as they scanned across Van Pelt's computer screen. As he stood Cho looked up and nodded at him, quickly turning back into a still life. Jane decided to give it some time. He walked to the kitchenette, fetched a bag of cashews from the upper middle cabinet, and walked back. They were still at it.

"That bad, huh?"

It was Van Pelt's turn to look around.

"You're up," she said with a cheerful smile.

"The boss said to wait until she's back to prep you on the case. Apparently she wants to make the directions very clear."

"What's the case?"

Van Pelt hesitated, but Cho's voice rang out across the room.

"Age seventeen Caucasian female; apparent suicide by hanging. The family's connected to some guy higher up on the CBI food chain which makes it a delicate case."

Jane smiled.

"I see," he said.

Rigsby was looking at Cho with some surprise.

"Dude," said he, "she told us not to say anything."

Cho didn't look over.

"What does it matter? He's bound to find out sooner or later."

"That's okay," said Jane. "I'll pretend I didn't know a thing."

---

Lisbon dropped the file on the desk.

"It's a very delicate case. The victim is the daughter of a family friend of Arthur's."

"Ah," said Jane, nodding, "the big head."

"He's Minelli's boss," said Lisbon, turning to him. "And I cannot stress to you enough that you absolutely must not pull another one of your badly planned risky stunts. If you upset the victim's family in any way they're going to go above Minelli's head and there's nothing he or I can do about it."

"Meaning that I'll get you in trouble."

"Meaning that you need to use some common sense," countered Lisbon. "Please. Just for once could you please follow protocol? No bating, no hypnotism, no dressing up as a ghost and dosing suspects with gasoline."

"It was actually ether," said Jane sheepishly.

"Whatever."

Lisbon glanced around the group. The boys exchanged glances and Van Pelt was determinedly biting her lip.

"Just behave," she said, tossing a meaningful look at Jane before striding off to her office.

---

It had started to rain when their black SUV pulled up on the driveway. Van Pelt, Jane and Lisbon climbed out and hurried under the shelter of the porch, feet splashing slightly on the slick blacktop. Lisbon knocked three times. Glancing around behind him, Jane looked over the cheerful hedges and colorful flowers bordering the walkways. Bright red and yellow flowers swayed back and forth slightly in the wind, burdened down with the weight of the falling rain. A delicately painted mailbox; stone bird-wash with a handcrafted feeder.

The door opened and a woman with soft brown curls stepped aside, smiling sadly.

"Hi," she said, "You must be the CBI—please, come inside."

They entered, Lisbon making the formal introductions. Jane wiped his shoes carefully on the welcome mat before stepping on the wooden floor; it was beige with green lettering, _Home At Last_.

"—and this is Patrick Jane," Lisbon was saying.

Jane shook the proffered hand.

"Consultant," he said by way of explanation.

"Agent Rigsby and Agent Cho are currently at the crime scene but they are involved in this investigation as well, Mrs. Lanner."

"Oh, please," said the lady with a shake of the head, "call me Effie. My husband passed away quite a long time ago and I've always felt uncomfortable with that title. It's such a little thing, I know, but sometimes it's painful to recall even the smallest details of a life that doesn't exist anymore. Oh—I'm sorry, rambling off again. Won't you sit down in the living room? I've got some tea that's about to boil and you can ask any question you like."

Libson nodded and they moved down the hallway after Effie. The two women seated themselves around the small coffee table as they waited while Jane strolled slowly around the room. Pictures filled in the gaps of the room, filling silences with soundless laughter and dim corners with smiles. He paused before a photograph of four people—Effie with two young girls and a man. The four of them had on fishing caps and identical grins. The youngest girl's smile shone brighter than the rest, and she seemed to be on the verge of a fit of giggles. A smile tugged on the edges of Jane's mouth.

"Here you are," said their hostess, wielding a tray of cups and saucers that she immediately began to distribute to murmurs of thanks.

"Was this your late husband?"

Effie looked up to see Jane pointing to the picture in his hand. She nodded.

"Yes, that was Jim. And those are our two daughters, Carol and Veronica."

Jane pointed to the girl in the blue t-shirt.

"Is this…"

"No, that's Carol. The one over there—yes, that's her—that's Veronica."

She paused, and smiled somewhat painfully.

"She was a very bright, wonderful child. So full of life."

Lisbon jumped in.

"Was she having a difficult time recently? Did she say anything or do anything in the past that might have indicated she had been experiencing some suicidal tendencies?"

Van Pelt looked over the rim of her saucer. Effie was shaking her head determinedly.

"No. No, she was a very normal, happy person. She had her problems, of course she did; who doesn't at that age? But she was a happy person. She liked to draw and had a bunch of friends and her family who loves her—

She paused, jerking her head as if to get rid of a pesky insect.

"Loved her."

A movement on the upper floor landing caught Jane's eye. A girl around twenty-three walked slowly to the edge of the staircase and hesitated there for a moment with her hand on the railing, looking down at the knot of people gathered in the living room.

"Mom?"

Effie turned around.

"Oh, hello dear. These are the people from CBI I told you would be coming."

The girl moved down the stairs, eyes surveying each stranger in turn.

"You should have told me," she said, "I want to help find out whoever did this to Vi too."

Jane stepped forward and took her hand.

"Hi Carol. My name is Patrick Jane and I'll be one of the people helping you find out the truth behind your sister's death."

They shook, and Carol eventually nodded and pulled her hand back, looking away.

"Good," she said.

"Do you mind if I borrow your daughter for a while as Agent Lisbon asks you some questions?" Jane asked.

"Oh, of course not. Go ahead," said Effie.

Carol looked at him. Jane smiled kindly.

"After you," he said.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Two**

Carol pushed open the white washed door and stepped inside, letting her left arm droop dejectedly to her side. It was a well-lit room with Venetian blinds on the windows and pale yellow walls, all centered around a twin-sized bed. The girl moved to it and sat down to watch Jane look about the room. She shrugged, gesturing to the things around her.

"This is where she spent most of her time, at least she did when I was around."

Jane nodded and joined her on the bed. He sat carefully on the edge, unmindfully testing its spring with his right hand before looking around to meet her gaze.

"And when was that?"

"About five years ago when I left for college."

"You were close?"

She shrugged again, eyes flitting about and landing on the walls, the dresser, the cabinets, the beige colored carpet.

"Sure, we were close. I mean, we weren't the kind of sisters who shared everything and anything and knew what the other was thinking all the time; but we got along."

She frowned. Jane waited, peering attentively at her face.

"That makes it sound like we were totally indifferent, but that isn't true."

Jane tilted his head to meet her eyes, still pleasantly smiling.

"How so?"

"It's just we had somewhat different personalities—she was more of the artsy kind, and meanwhile I was working towards my biochemistry major. It was hard to like the same things: each time we went to the movies we could never agree on what to see, and in the city she'd want to go to the little ethnic districts while I'd want to go to museums and souvenir shops. Stuff like that. But we really got along—sometimes we'd even share clothes: we had similar sizes. We just…I loved Vi, but we never got much time together."

"What's your favorite memory together?"

Carol looked a little surprised.

"My favorite memory?"

"Yes."

"Um…well, I've never really thought about that."

"Give it a try."

She was quiet for a few moments, staring at the filtered white light beyond the Venetian blinds. Jane listened to the pattering of the rain above their heads and waited, watchful and pensive. Suddenly Carol smiled. She looked at him, eyes sparkling a little.

"She always loved the tree-fort we played in when we were little."

Jane nodded smilingly, with a silent "ah" on his lips.

"Can I see it?"

"What—now?"

"Sure, why not?"

Carol glanced again at the window, still sounding with the downpour of rain, and grinned.

"Ah…okay!"

---

Jane shut the front door with a furtive click behind them. By some unspoken understanding the two felt like fugitives, creeping downstairs quietly and trying to remain invisible as they stole down the hallway and out into the steady rain. The ground had grown soft, and as they sprinted towards the backyard their shoes sunk submissively into the muddy earth. By the time the two had managed to clamber into the shelter of the tree-fort eight feet above the ground they were both breathless from the exertion and from laughing at their own pitiful state. Jane surveyed the room as he leaned back against a wall, panting as his heart began to slow. Carol was still laughing in spurts, estimating the damage done to her socks and shoes.

It was a homey place, filled with cushions and blankets and decorated with posters, old photos, and clips from magazines. Jane scooted closer to a blue beanbag in the corner and scooped out from its depression a ball of grayish yarn attached to a short scrap of material. Carol, seeing it, regained her solemnity and sighed silently towards the shadows. Jane looked at her.

"This hers?"

Carol shook her head.

"It must be; I haven't been here for…ages. I didn't know she took up knitting, but she's been picking up all sorts of hobbies for a while now: guitar, scrap booking, coin collecting. You name it."

She paused, looking around wistfully.

"She was very talented."

The rain was beginning to thin. The pounding on the wooden roof of the fort grew quiet and left only a soft rhythmic dripping sound as downpour morphed into drizzle. Jane looked out. It was a calming view of the grassy lawn that stretched forward until it touched the walls of the house of mourning, sitting cozily with its yellow-lighted windows.

"It must be hard to be sister to the favorite child," he said.

Carol looked up, startled.

"What do you—what are you talking about?"

"Your father built this for Veronica, didn't he?" Jane questioned gently.

Carol just looked at him.

"You had been dropping hints to him ever since you were little, hoping one day he'd build one for you, but when your sister grew up and _she_ wanted a fort—now then, now he does it. He even painted her room her favorite color. Veronica always got to be first because she was younger, didn't she? Your father loved her playfulness, and your mother loved her bright little smile, and you…you were the other one. Doesn't mean they didn't love you, you knew that, but still it hurt every time when she got to be the one who sat on your father's lap whenever they read bedtime stories. It's natural to feel a little jealous."

"What are you implying?" Carol asked, her voice cold.

Jane leaned back. He raised his eyebrows and tilted his head, turning his palms outwards as if to reveal all his tricks.

"Nothing. I'm only trying to understand _why_ a perfectly happy teenage girl who was the center of attention in her home would want to commit suicide."

Carol's voice caught in her throat.

"Are you saying—do you mean that you think—that _I_—

"No," said Jane. "I meant what I said. I'm just trying to piece things together."

She processed this, eyes downcast, fingers picking distractedly at the patches of mud on her bell-bottoms. The dripping of water rang out in the silence.

"Well, what do you want me for?"

Jane smiled.

"Sisters often know more about each other than parents do, even if the sisters weren't very close. I just want you to give me an honest answer so that we can correctly identify the cause of her death."

Her eyes bore into his.

"You mean you think she really was…murdered?"

"It's a little to early to tell," Jane replied. He paused.

"Carol. Based on all your previous knowledge of your sister—any past medical record, any tendencies, small acts—tell me honestly: does Veronica seem like someone who might have committed suicide?"

She shook her head repeatedly, head in hands.

"No, no…I don't know. I don't think so…I—there was a period of time when she was really angry about our mother seeing other people again but aside from that…she's been doing alright."

Carol looked up wearing a pained expression.

"But I told you, we aren't exactly the closest of sisters."

Jane nodded and smiled kindly.

"I got it."

"Jane!"

They both turned. Lisbon was bending over an open window, wearing an exasperated expression. Jane smiled at her and waved.

"We'd better go," he said to his co-fugitive.

---

Lisbon watched Effie's expression from the corner of her eyes as the lady of the house handed Jane and her daughter towels to dry their hair. From the depths of the warm folds of the terrycloth towel Jane snuck a grin at Lisbon. She shook her head almost imperceptibly, side to side.

"Thank you," said Jane, handing back the towel.

"Yes, thank you for your time, Mrs. Lanner." Lisbon nodded.

"Effie," said the lady with a wide smile.

They shook.

"Ah, actually," cut in Jane, "there are a few items in the fort that Van Pelt might like to take a look at and maybe bring back to forensics?"

"What for?" sounded Carol.

"Just for some points of reference."

Lisbon nodded at Van Pelt, who returned the gesture and headed outside.

"Thank you again," said Lisbon, and followed the junior agent.

Jane looked at Carol.

"You'll get them back," he assured her, "it'll help us find the answers."

She looked at him appreciatively but remained silent.

"Take care," he said, and stepped outside to join the others.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Three**

"What are you going to do with a ball of yarn?" asked Van Pelt with a wrinkled nose as she tossed the zip-locked back to Jane.

"Ah, well," said he, "I'm running out of socks."

"You can't treat that as a toy," said Lisbon brusquely. "That's evidence."

"Lisbon, I would never play around with criminal evidence."

Van Pelt landed next to them with a wet plop and lifted a skeptical eyebrow at Jane.

"Let's go," said Lisbon, turning towards the front yard. The others fell into stride beside her. Jane craned his head to get a better look at her expression.

"You don't believe me?"

"Jane," started Lisbon as she crossed to the left side of the black SUV, "you were twenty minutes in a tree-house with the sister of the deceased victim. How much maturity do you expect me to credit you with?"

"Oh, come on," said Jane as he climbed in, "you know there's method to my madness. Make friends with the sister, and sooner or later she'll come to me when she decides to reveal what she's hiding."

Lisbon's eyes met his briefly in the review mirror.

"What makes you so certain that she's hiding something?" She sounded amused.

"Well I don't know for sure," he acknowledged, "but it's certainly a good possibility."

"What makes us think that it's not just a regular suicide?" asked Van Pelt from the front seat.

"We don't," replied Lisbon, shifting the stick to drive. "It's the head who personally asked Minelli to have us check it out. In all probability the victim's family overreacted under the emotional stress and when forensics finish checking things out we can quietly close the case."

"Or," offered Jane, leaning far forward in his chair and glancing from one to the other, "there's something else going on beneath the surface that we haven't clearly seen yet."

Van Pelt turned to look at him.

"What did the sister tell you when you were up on that tree house?"

Jane grinned.

"Nothing too revealing. If anything, that Veronica Lanner was a bright and happy girl who mysteriously died an unfortunate death. There's nothing on her medical record that indicates a past history of depression. Ah-ah—yes, Lisbon, I know what you were about to say. But the fact remains that even though it's possible for a healthy person to suddenly develop psychiatric problems there first must have been something which _triggered_ those problems, and that's where we should start when we begin investigating."

The SUV dallied up to a red light. The engine hummed calmly as each person worked through his or her thoughts. Van Pelt turned to him again.

"What do you think triggered them?"

Jane looked at her with quiet energy.

"It just so happens that Mrs. Lanner started seeing someone a while ago, someone whom Veronica didn't seem to approve of. I say that whatever the reason for her death can be traced back to this mystery suitor. We should check up him first before we do anything else."

He was looking at Lisbon now. Van Pelt glanced at her too. The team leader had been gazing distractedly at the unchanging traffic light, but now she turned her head and gave Jane a look.

"You just want to make this as complicated as possible."

Jane grinned widely.

"You know you like it."

He paused.

"Besides, the evidence wouldn't be complete without the testimony of everyone who had been close to the victim in recent days."

Lisbon drummed her fingers softly against the plastic arch of the steering wheel, eyes back on the traffic lights. She fancied she could feel the others holding their breath. Waiting, waiting.

The light turned green.

"Alright," she said, "let's go ask her."

Jane smiled and held on as the black SUV executed a clean and quite illegal U-turn at the intersection, heading back to the house of mourning.


	5. Chapter 5

So. I decided to write this next flashback about Jane's wife. However, I was very reluctant to break the unwritten code of Mentalist fanfiction, which appears to be that no one ever names Jane's wife. So prepare yourself for a whole lot of pronouns!

**Interlude**

_It was winter the first time they met._

_She was dressed in a frosty blue blouse and grey jersey slacks. One of the many faces turned up towards him, watching, amused, smiling._

_He didn't remember much from the rest of that day, except the one boy who kept staring at him intensely, trying to second-guess his tricks. That was always endearing. Jane had given him an extra chance just for trying. Who knows, someday perhaps he'll be on the opposite side of the table. As it were, the boy got up rather sheepishly and sauntered down to join his friends._

_That was it. That was the moment. He was grinning after the kid, content in the flow of the applause and the warmth of the spotlights to linger for a few moments in inaction. The boy didn't use the stairs—he leaned down, put his right hand on the edge of the stage, and jumped. Except Jane never saw him jump because a faint movement in the dim background caught his eye._

_It was she. The second to top button on her blouse, more specifically, glimmering faintly red from the spotlights._

_And so, on a lark, he picked her for the next act. It was rather scandalous, actually. There were easily a hundred hands waving in the air, but instead Jane ignored them and headed straight over to the edge of the stage. She realized he was quite exclusively looking at her when he was about two feet from the end, and then she smiled even more broadly from embarrassment, glancing to her left and right as if hoping someone would grab her and say to the strange stage performer advancing nearer and nearer—"No! You can't have her." But it didn't happen. Instead he squatted down before her and returned her smile. He held out his hand._

_"Well?" he said._

_And, for some reason that no one will ever understand—not even herself—she took it. They had lunch the next day._

_---_

_It was accidental, actually. Or so, until the second month of their marriage on a warm summer night when they lay under the covers playing "two truths and a lie", she had thought. She was stopping by the grocery store on her way home from the optometrist—out of olive oil again—and saw him in aisle seven looking up boxes of cereal. It registered in her mind, but she didn't feel like spending any quality time in a grocery story, and so she hurried past without a word. But she thought, roguishly, that she'd like to see him pull that from her ear. Vegetable oil, corn oil, olive oil. Check._

_When she hurried from her aisle she nearly ran into him, but he was busy comparing two types of birdfeed and didn't look up when she said "Sorry," and brushed past him. She stepped into line at checkout aisle four. She checked her watch: one-fifty. No wonder she was hungry._

_"Miss?" interrupted a voice quite close behind her. She turned._

_The familiar face broke into a look of delighted recognition._

_"Hello—it's very nice to see you again."_

_She tried to look equally surprised._

_"Oh, hi!"_

_Was it her, or did his smile grow imperceptibly wider?_

_"Here," he said, dangling a ring of keys in between them, "you dropped this."_

_"Oh," she said again, bemusedly accepting the keys, "thank you."_

_That's funny. She didn't recall hearing anything…_

_("You jerk!" she laughed, thumping him hard with his pillow, "the beginning of this relationship was based on lies."_

_Her husband caught the fluffy weapon and its warrior in a quick embrace, and said laughingly into her hair:_

_"You don't know the extent of it; that was just the beginning."_

_That warranted another good thump.)_

_The stranger shrugged it off charmingly._

_"You hungry?"_

_And for the second time, she had not a clue why she surrendered to so capricious a whim._

_---_

_On Saturday they took a stroll in the preserve. He brought rolls—home made he claimed, but she had her suspicions—and they ate them in napkins as they walked along the wooded path._

_"So tell me something," she said in between bites. "How long did it take you to learn that trick?"_

_He looked at her, chewing slowly._

_"Which one?"_

_"You know—the one where someone sits in the chair and you tell them to think of an image and mentally send it to you, then you gesture all over the place with your hands, like—oops. Sorry,"_

_She bent quickly to pick the stub of a roll from the ground._

_"That's okay; there's a lot more."_

_"Thanks."_

_She helped herself to another. The dough was warm and comforting against her hand. Jane watched her eat._

_"It's a simple suggestion exercise," he answered serenely. "You mention something before the other person has a chance to think, and so their response will most likely be altered based on your suggestion. I use it sometimes in my job as a psychic—_

_Here he paused and looked at her carefully._

_She smiled in puzzlement._

_"Psychic?"_

_He hesitated a little._

_"It's not real," he said finally, "I use suggestion to help my clients learn to appreciate my supposed psychic powers—_

_"Do you ever feel bad?" she cut in suddenly. She was in a contemplative mood._

_He raised his eyebrows at her._

_"It comes with being human, I hear."_

_She chuckled._

_"No, I mean—do you ever feel bad about deceiving people all the time?"_

_"Why?"_

_"Well, you never explain to them what's going on because it's a big 'magician' thing that has to be kept secret, and then you might get some people to really believe in things that have no stake in reality."_

_He tilted his head briefly to the side in a pleasant gesture of apathy._

_"What of it?"_

_"You're hiding the truth from people,"_

_She stopped in her path to face him, her face oddly serious, but calm._

_"Sometimes people need the truth in order to move on, Patrick."_

_"It's not that serious," he said laughingly, somewhat taken aback._

_Her eyes held some unformed question, and they peered into his searchingly._

_"It's not that serious," he repeated, more confidently. He smiled._

_"Oh, come on—are you saying you don't think it's somewhat amusing that people can be deceived into believing things about ghosts and spirits just because a stage performer claims to be able to communicate with the dead?"_

_She returned the smile and reached down for his hand. Their fingers intertwined carefully, meticulously._

_"You're not a stage performer," she said softly. Their foreheads were close._

_"I beg to differ," he replied in a whisper._

_And then they kissed. In retrospect, it did seem like pretty odd timing._


End file.
